Almost Divine
by tami3
Summary: A modern myth that reads like a gothic fairytale. A retelling of Cupid and Psyche with a rock band, body piercings, and groupie harpies for sisters.


Almost Divine-A Gothic Fairytale

Once upon a time- they met in back alley of a bar-it was no lover's lane. The chunks of Buffalo wings in the vomit pools overflowed into the gutters like serene ponds beside a grassy knoll, but they couldn't be her fairy flowerbeds. The drunks sagging over by the dumpsters couldn't waltz a serenade by fluttering the fans of blossoming robes. They were still for sake of their grumbling guts. Their hair dripped with perspiration, juicy beads upon their brows as the sweat caught the neon toxic glow of the urban nightscape, and all its cheap revelry. And though she could barely see them for the city's typical darkness for its gutter trash, she knew they thought they could never reach her, perched up on the fire escape like a leather-clad gargoyle. She understood that- why would they think they could compare to her, if they were here? She'd only run here in the first place because she was lonely-and it was the almost-as-beautiful who snubbed her, jealous and curt. It was here, with the dredges, that at least she had her fearful admiration.

But someone did dare, someone as invisible and unseen as reasoning in this forsaken niche of the sleeping metropolis. Before she could even cry out, his arms had folded sweetly across her waist, and his voice like the soothing anticipation of a drum roll purred in her ear.

"You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. What's your name?"

And she opened her fruit-glossed lips to say Jane or Anne or Sandy or something just as ordinary that broke people's hearts when they realized that it was contrary to her extraordinariness, but he cut her off.

"Not your real name. The one you give to your victims before you witch smile sucks out their souls."

She had no answer. She only turned to look at the face, which could not be seen in the dimness, her shiny beacon of a mouth pursed into an amazed "o" He laughed at her, as if he were not human and could see her expression in the dark with a pair of cat's eyes.

"Soul stealer…soul…Psyche, the Greek word for 'soul.'" He said softly, and though he was only as clear as the unlit alley would allow, she sensed that he was smiling kindly at her. "Psyche…will that do?" He pulled closer. "Psyche… I think you're my soul."

She said yes, but barely had the time to utter the simple word as he pressed his lips to hers.

And though it was with no less gloom and shadows the young and the irresponsible retched, the night was torched and frothed into a shameless blaze of scandal.

The girl now called Psyche had two wretched sisters. They were another two that hated her for her beauty, sent her away to be captivating all by herself. They themselves were quite gorgeous, but Psyche thought they were like the Furies. Scarily skinny. Shrieking voices that made those who had vexed them cower from the sharp, crimson nails that they weren't afraid to use, and were as long as paperclips. And right now they were shrieking, again.

Heartbreakers. They chanted. Heartbreakers. They squealed.

The Heartbreakers were a band, four male members, and all of them true heartbreakers. A lead singer, who's severe pale blue eyes ate up any praise about the heavenly sky, who's wrath and melodic rhapsodies raged upon his earthly throne. There was the back up with an electric guitar, mockingly beautiful and welcoming any touch that went out to stroke his glowing skin, as he posed radiant upon the stage. There was the other back up with a bass, who called claims of love and rapture forever after, but held barbs of discarded lovers and lust grown bitter in every ring punched through his ears. And the drummer, quiet and cute and mischievous, playing subtle taps against his set before bringing a catastrophic clash of percussion upon the unsuspecting heads of fans. Their trademark was the tangle of piercings on their backs, a bundle of bones as if Heaven had starved angels until their wings were a hollow jungle gym of pipes and chains. They were coming to town and having a concert. And if Psyche knew her sisters, they would hang around the backstage door like the other groupies.

If they were acidic, thoughts like needles and words like scalpels, in some ways they were like all other mortal women; hopelessly hopeful of getting their heart broken by the Heartbreakers. The difference might be that they would snap the other's women's neck with stiletto heel pikes before she got to the Heartbreakers first.

But Psyche had no cares for the singers. Psyche thought of instead the boy she had met in the bar's alley. She never could see him in daylight; he always asked to meet her in a certain park tree, a lampless alcove of a church. Though sleepy city light pollution would tumble about their bodies like faint halos, it was not enough to see him clearly. She did not know his face, but her hands could greet the mold and form off his body and face like familiar friends. Even if he always kept his back pressed up against a wall.

She daydreamed so much that even her sisters noticed her conspicuous lack of interest in the demigod rock group. Then her sisters pried; nipping and snarking about a lonesome overactive imagination. She was glad that she was not able to share her lover's appearance to her poisonous sisters, whatever it might be, but they would not leave at that. Then one day, she knew she was going to have his baby, and without another thought for caution, bubbled his news out to her sisters. Even the two cruel sisters could have passed for smugly content at this, for even if Psyche had her joy, they were at least now justified in calling her a slut to their friends. They could have left it at that. They could have elevated their own egos while Psyche whisked her way out their lives.

But, they said, of course by now you know what the father looks like, right? And when she could not speak, her two sisters looked at each other with hateful gleams in their eyes and nodded knowingly.

"He's a rapist." One said, the purple highlights in her ponytails flashing magenta in the nose and lip rings she wore to compliment her slanted eyes.

"Or a maniac, for sure." Said the other, the diamond dazzle on her cheeks setting off her flame-red locks. "He rip out your belly and strangle you with your own entrails."

"Then he'll eat you both up!" The other burst out in giggles, while the first shrieked with laughter and tears: "Delicious!"

And suddenly, Psyche was afraid.

The next time she was with him, she went prepared. He rose to greet her from a window box seat, his chides and caresses and kisses flowing forth in an unbroken track. And if he noticed her lack of response, he didn't think to tell her. Just like she had not told him about the baby yet; and now she wouldn't unless she knew for sure what he was.

There were a carton of cigarettes in her pocket. His fingers closed around it lightly, trying to take it away, but she nudged it back firm. She had smoked before, but stopped when she got pregnant. He thought he had finally got her to quit. But she pulled one out now, took a match and got ready to glimpse his face when the flare sparked up.

It was not that simple.

"Babe, you don't need to smoke when you're with me." he began, reaching out to taking the smoke away from her.

Trembling, she struck the match and held it to her cigarette. Too late, he realized what she was really trying to do and reeled from her touch. But she saw anyways. The soft boyish face and the skeletal graveyard of steel and lace ripping out of his back.

"Psyche!" he cried. She didn't mean to, but her hand flicked up in surprise and the cigarette splashed heat across his face.

"PSYCHE!" He pushed her away and she sprawled on the floor, not daring to breath or look up. When she finally did, he was gone.

Psyche mauled her way through crowds of spangled fangirls to get to the door. Her sisters were there, in the throngs of hopeful groupies for the Heartbreakers. But she wasn't here to get her heart broken. The bouncer gave her a thoughtful glance, but let her in when she begged. She was too pretty a girl to disappoint.

But there were the two other members of the band, smoking and blocking the entrance of performer's dress room. The fumes wafted delicately around their alien beauty, blurred their faces into smeared features of pagan, aggressive grace. They stared at her with their assailing attractiveness when she asked to get through, to where her lover must be. She could almost see their network of metal feathers stretching with hostility, a jumble of cages and fences threading through their clothes and limbs like an arsenal of traps.

"Who are you? Cupid doesn't want to see you. Get back with the other groupies." One said, glaring. He was Vee. The bassist.

"Cupid doesn't want to see anyone." The guitar player, Nes, complained petulantly. "Some chick burned his face with a cigarette, I think he's too ashamed to even go up on stage."

She drew herself up. "That was me." And when they looked at her uncomprehendingly, she continued in her small voice. "He named me Psyche."

Then they started hooting and snickering, even putting out their cigarettes on the floor. The smoke cleared, and Psyche felt a longing for it to return; otherwise they were far too sharp and vivid in her eyes, cunningly merciless out of sheer amusement alone.

"Listen." Vee started seriously, menacingly. "Ever since Cupid met you, he's been no fun. He won't go to parties with us, he's always gone after our gigs. He disappears whenever we need to practice."

"We don't need you breaking up our band, Yoko. Go home. Leave us alone. You didn't trust Cupid anyways. He's pretty pissed. He's better off without you." Nes said unconcernedly.

"Please." She started desperately. "I'm having his baby." Vee and Nes looked at each other, and suddenly smiled.

Simultaneously, Vee drew out a fresh cigarette and Nes produced a bottle of vodka from his dark pants. They held it out to her, signaling her to drink the whole bottle and light the smoke.

"If you're gonna hang with us, you gotta get used to the smoke." Vee crooned his words like a lullaby. "Cupid'll feel so bad for knocking you up of course he'll let you tag along. But we're not quitting for some chick who tricked Cupid into getting her pregnant."

"Finish that without passing out or throwing up." Nes added. His command was like a singsong, pleasant and only teasingly mean. "Any chick who says she's good enough for Cupid had better be able to hold her liquor."

That's crazy! Psyche wanted to scream "No. I'm pregnant." Psyche protested instead, her throat dry and voice ugly compared to the two melodious singers.

"What good's a baby without the daddy?" They taunted. And they were laughing silently at her, in their element and thoroughly enjoying it. They were breaking another heart. They felt they were making up for Cupid's lag. Lately he hadn't found this kind of thing funmy anymore.

But then the door opened, and the lead singer peered out.

"Zeus!" Vee and Nes gasped.

"Who's this?" Zeus asked, scowling and Psyche was reminded of thunderbolts and lightening by the wicked forks of his gelled, bleached hair.

Psyche, before she even knew what she was doing, before she understood that she was shoving back two very dangerous and malicious men who were big enough to break bones with a single hand, ran to the judge-like figure. She wanted to tell him her story. Get him to help her, deliver her to Cupid. But all she could say was his name over and over again. Cupid. Cupid. Cupid. Zeus listened with an impassive face. He was incredibly tall. Psyche felt as he could melt her down and zap her into a sunbeam or morph her into a wild beast at the same time.

"Let her in, you idiots. Cupid loves her," he snapped at Vee and Nes. His wing piercings, the biggest, sharpest, like a titanium eagle's, seemed to stretch threateningly over his head. Vee and Nes jumped to obey, immediately allowing Psyche to enter. She ran inside, and Zeus folded his wings along the line of his back, sighing.

Cupid was lounging on a sofa, sadly playing simple scales on a cotton candy pink guitar. His face had lines of cigarette burns crisscrossing over the bridge of his nose, his back rings swayed as his fingers slid across the bars. He looked up when Psyche called his name. He stared as she held out her hands.

"Psyche!" He said in wonder, and she went to his open arms.

A/N: If anyone wants to know all the mythology references, I'll add another section.


End file.
